Surrender to Sin (3 page)

Cary glanced at Abigail. “What, this young lady?”

“It’s been a very popular service this season. Only a penny more, sir.”

“By all means.” When Mr. Eldridge presented him with the package tied up with a red ribbon, Cary seemed pleased. “I daresay my sister will think I did it myself. And now I must bid you adieu, cousin,” he said, turning to Abigail.

“Must you go?” Abigail blurted without thinking as he took her hand. “I’d like to present you to my father,” she quickly added. “He’ll want to thank you for your kindness to me.”

“I should very much like to meet your father, cousin, but my aunt expects me in Park Lane. I was meant to be there three quarters of an hour ago, and I am never late.”

Abigail reddened. “It’s my fault you’re late now. I’m so sorry.”

He smiled. “You’ve provided me with an excellent excuse for my tardiness, at any rate.”

Though she in no way wanted him to go, Abigail was relieved when he did. Having one’s wits scrambled by a good-looking stranger was decidedly unpleasant. Much better to be left in peace with a cup of tea and a quiet volume of Wordsworth.

Mr. Eldridge was more than happy to provide her with these comforts. He showed Abigail to the private sitting room and brought her a pot of tea and
The White Doe of Rhylston
. “I suppose my cousin, Mr. Wayborn, buys a lot of books for his wife,” Abigail remarked, idly opening the little green book to its title page.

“Did Mr. Wayborn marry?” Mr. Eldridge replied, pouring her tea into a Worcester cup. “Oh, dear. I failed to wish him joy. Shall I put
The White Doe
on your account, madam?”

“No,” Abigail said, arriving at a sudden decision. Closing the book, she held it out to him. “No, I think I’ll take the Blake after all, Mr. Eldridge.”

“Very good, madam,” said Mr. Eldridge, pleased.

When Mr. Ritchie arrived to collect his only child some thirty minutes later, he found her deep in thought over a book, staring at a picture of a smirking tiger. “Abby! You will never guess who I saw in Bond Street just now,” he said, in his thick Glaswegian accent. “My Lord Dulwich, that’s who. Someone’s getting sparklers for Christmas, I shouldn’t wonder!”

Abigail smiled fondly at her father. The sole proprietor of Ritchie’s Fine Spirits, est. 1782, was not a gentleman, but he was still the best man she had ever known. He was also one of the richest men in the kingdom. “He certainly knows how to make an impression,” she tactfully agreed with him. “Would you be terribly disappointed if I didn’t marry him after all?”

Heedless of her long black skirts, Juliet Wayborn ran down the stairs of her aunt’s town house to greet her brother with spaniel-like enthusiasm. The mourning dress and jet ornaments she wore in honor of the sixth Duke of Auckland became her quite as well as the white satin wedding gown she had ordered for her forthcoming marriage to the seventh Duke of Auckland.

“Careful, monkey,” Cary said, laughing as she flung herself headlong into his arms. “You wouldn’t want to break your nose this close to your wedding day. Speaking of which, I saw the man’s grays being walked up and down the street. I take it he’s here?”

She nodded. “Just back now—he’s been called to Auckland twice this month, poor lamb. I see you still have that horrid little muskrat growing on your chin,” she added severely. “And the earrings! You’re not going to wear earrings at my wedding. You look like a pirate!”

“I’ve missed you, Julie,” said Cary, surprised how true it was. His rustic existence in Hertfordshire was a lonely one. In London, he had been something of a local celebrity, a man of fashion whose perfectly matched chestnuts had proved unbeatable in countless races, but in Hertfordshire he had few friends. Most evenings he sat alone at his fireside, his only company being Angel, a mongrel pup he had recently purchased from a gypsy for tuppence. “Anyway, it’s only one earring.”

“Oh, that’s much nicer,” she snorted. “And don’t even
think
of wearing one of your shabby old purple coats, either! I want all the men in pearl gray. Go to Mr. Weston tomorrow.”

“I shall have to come as I am,” he said, brushing what proved to be baker’s flour from his purple sleeve. “Mr. Weston won’t give me any more coats until I pay my bill.”

“If you need money—”

“Don’t,” he said.

She didn’t.

“You’re horribly late as usual,” she chided him as they walked arm in arm up the stairs to the salon where their aunt Lady Elkins received visitors when she was not enjoying a spell of ill health. “Ginger has eaten all the muffins, but I shall make him give you his all next week.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be with you next week, Julie.”

“What?” she cried in disbelief. “But it’s Christmas week, Cary. We’re all going to Surrey, same as always.”

“Not this year, I’m afraid,” said Cary, wistful, but resigned.

“No, you must,” she protested, digging her fingers into his arm. “Next year I shall have to be at Auckland, you know, and every year after that. It’s my last Christmas in our father’s house, Cary. We’re just making our final plans now, and you’re in them.”

“Sounds ominous,” said her brother.

“Ginger!” she cried, flinging open the salon doors. “Ginger, Cary says he won’t go to Surrey with us for Christmas. What are you going to do about it?”

Geoffrey Ambler, the seventh Duke of Auckland, climbed to his feet. Juliet had not quite tamed the enormous redhead, but he now accepted being called Ginger by his future duchess without so much as a grimace of displeasure. The death of his father had hit him hard, postponing his marriage to Juliet, and plunging him, for the first time, into a world of tedious responsibility. Like Juliet, he was dressed in deepest mourning, and the ravages of new pressures and cares showed in the lines and shadows of his craggy face. Nonetheless, he gave Cary a quick, boyish smile that went a long way towards explaining Juliet’s adoration of the fierce-looking redhead. He said, with a lot of northern England in his accent, “I shall need a mallet and a very large sack, but I think I can manage to change his mind, my love.”

Cary offered his hand. “Hullo, Auckland.”

His future brother-in-law winced as he shook hands. His father had only been dead for eleven months and his new title was still a fresh source of pain to him. “Please don’t call me that. Auckland was my father. When I hear the name, I find myself looking behind me to see if he’s there. Geoffrey will do. We’re practically brothers, after all.”

“I was just telling Cary about our plans for Christmas,” said Juliet brightly.

“Which explains his refusal to go into Surrey,” the Duke said, his green eyes twinkling.

“Nonsense! Everyone loves a good private theatrical, and Cary’s no different.”

Cary snorted rather violently.

“
Twelfth Night
,” Juliet went on bravely, undeterred by her brother’s lack of enthusiasm. “I’m to be Viola, of course, and Ginger will be my beloved Duke Orsino.”

“You’re joking me,” said Cary. “Sir, is it even possible that this is true?”

“If music be the food of love, play on,” the Duke said sheepishly.

“You see?” Juliet said proudly. “He’s coming along very nicely, I think.”

“Honestly, why do you put up with her?” Cary wanted to know.

“Because he adores me, that’s why,” said Juliet. “And Serena has agreed to take the part of the Countess Olivia.”

Cary started in surprise. Lady Serena Calverstock was seated behind him and he had not been aware of her presence until Juliet made it known. Given that she was wearing one of the new high-brimmed poke bonnets, it seemed a strange oversight. He could remember a time not very long ago when he had possessed an almost supernatural sense that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up whenever Serena was near. Now, nothing, despite the fact that, if anything, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. He bowed to her impassively. “Madam. You’re looking well, but then you always do. Look well, that is.”

The dark-haired beauty felt the coldness behind the compliment and colored slightly. “Mr. Wayborn,” she said. “We have all missed you in Town this last year.”

“I have been in Hertfordshire, overseeing my estate. It’s in absolute disarray, I’m afraid.”

“If it is, it’s your own fault,” said Juliet, rather disloyally, Cary thought. “You’ve neglected it shamefully for years.”

“And it will take me years to set it right. But I find I don’t miss London as much as I thought I would,” he said, now lying through his teeth. “I find country life very peaceful. The people are simple and kind. The young ladies of Hertfordshire are not so artful and designing as the London variety.”

“You can’t be talking about the Mickleby girls,” Juliet scoffed. “They’re practically cannibals when it comes to you.”

“I find them charmingly transparent,” Cary replied. “It’s the London opacity I can’t tolerate. Miss Mickleby and her sisters harbor no secrets. They would all very much like to marry me, if they can’t get anyone better.”

Serena could not remain insensible to the hostility of her former admirer. “I beg your pardon, Juliet, but I fear I’ve stayed too long,” she said, pulling on the sky-blue gloves that exactly matched the immense plumes nodding on her bonnet. “I do have appointments. Would you be so kind as to ring for my maid?”

“Allow me, my lady,” said Cary, all but leaping across the room to pull the bell rope.

“Wait, Serena,” Juliet pleaded. “I haven’t told Cary the best part yet. Cary, you’re going to be Sebastian, Viola’s brother. It’s a very small part, hardly fifty lines. Say you will,” she quickly begged him. “Who better to play the part of my brother than my actual brother, after all? And, don’t forget, in the end, Sebastian and Olivia fall in love. You can play that part, surely, if Serena plays hers.”

Cary looked at Serena with hard gray eyes. “I believe we have already played those parts, Juliet, and I, for one, don’t care to repeat the performance.”

“Please do excuse me,” Serena breathed, jumping to her feet. Her ivory pallor had been replaced by a scarlet blush that decidedly did not match her blue ensemble.

Juliet ran after her friend. Supremely unconcerned, Cary closed the door behind the two women and flung himself down into the nearest chair. The Duke of Auckland sat down too, but did not speak, for which Cary was deeply grateful.

“Look here, old man,” Cary said after a moment. “Might I ask a favor of you?”

Geoffrey Ambler looked a little hunted. Over the past few months, a great many favors had been asked of the new Duke of Auckland. Then he reminded himself that Cary was Juliet’s brother; he, at least, had some right to ask. “Of course,” he said, with some of his old generosity of spirit. “Up to half my kingdom, or, rather my dukedom. Ask away.”

Cary spoke carefully. “I should like to stress that I’ve not yet come to the point where it’s necessary, but I want to ask you to buy the chestnuts, if it comes to it. I know you have your grays, but Julie ought to have a good driving team of her own. I couldn’t possibly sell them to anyone else, and you know what they’re worth.”

The Duke sat up straight. “Sell your chestnuts? You can’t possibly be serious. Why, Cary Wayborn without his chestnuts is rather like…like…” His grace tried to find a suitable simile for this unprecedented occurrence, but he was no Shakespeare.

Neither was Cary. “Rather like Cary Wayborn without his testicles, I should imagine. Look, I’m hoping it won’t come to it, but if it does, may I depend on you to buy them?”

“If you need money, old man—”

“Do please refrain from finishing that sentence,” Cary interrupted. “No, it’s kind of you to offer, but I couldn’t possibly accept. The estate is on the dunghill because of my neglect, and who should suffer for it but myself? Anyway, I don’t think it will come to it. I’m sure it won’t. But may I depend on you if it does?”

“Yes,” said the Duke seriously. “Yes, of course.”

“Juliet is not to know I’ve asked you,” Cary warned. “She’d only start throwing humpbacked heiresses in my way. I’ve no intention of marrying a bank account.”

Having concluded this embarrassing business, Cary went upstairs to pay his respects to his aunt Lady Elkins. When he returned to the salon after a game of piquet with the old lady, he found his sister pouring out the tea. Her mood was that of an avenging angel.

“How could you be so beastly cruel to Serena?” she demanded. “I can remember a time when you wanted to marry her.”

Cary reddened. “And I can remember a time when you counseled me against it! Now you seem to live in her pocket. I would not have come to my aunt’s house had I known she was here. I didn’t see her carriage in the street.”

“No, she walked here with her maid,” Juliet explained. “I wish you would forgive her, Cary. If you only knew what Horatio had put her through, you’d pity her. Seven years of a secret engagement, and then he spurned her! I call that infamous.”

“Whatever he put her through, it wasn’t enough,” Cary replied. “She knew I was utterly infatuated with her beauty, and she let me go on like a fool, dangling after her, when all the while she was engaged to my cousin. I have no pity for her.”

“But Horatio is more at fault,” Juliet argued. “He drove Serena mad with his coldness and his contempt, until she had no choice but to relieve him of his obligation to her. Only yesterday, he was walking towards her in Bond Street, and, when he saw her, he crossed to the other side and pretended not to see her. You would not punish her like that, surely.”

“No,” Cary admitted.

“Horatio is an ass,” said the Duke, with the air of one giving the last word. “Just because the Prince Regent gave him that ruddy snuffbox doesn’t mean everyone in London has got to see it three times a day. Somebody ought to take it away from him and throw it in the Thames.”

“Ginger’s right,” said Juliet. “That snuffbox is the only thing in the world he really loves. Horatio without his snuffbox…Why, that’s rather like Cary without his chestnuts.”

“What do you mean?” cried the Duke, startled by her clairvoyance. “Why should you say such a damn fool thing? Cary without his chestnuts! I never heard such nonsense!”

“You can’t blame Horatio for everything,” Cary said quickly. “Pompous ass he may be, but he didn’t force her ladyship to flirt with me while she was secretly engaged to another. When I think of how she led me on, I could throw
her
in the Thames. Why don’t you ask Cousin Horatio to play Sebastian to her Olivia?”

“Horatio does not deserve her,” Juliet protested.

“Well, monkey, at the risk of sounding conceited, Serena don’t deserve
me
.”

“You men!” she said scathingly. “You love as no man has ever loved before—that is, until the first real test of your devotion, and then it all goes out the window with the bathwater.”

“‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,’” said the Duke of Auckland, unexpectedly entering the argument, “‘or bends with the remover to remove…’”

Juliet took her lord’s hand and recited the sonnet with him, “‘Oh, no! It is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark…’”

“Woof, woof,” said Cary, irritated by his sister’s treacly tone.

The Duke looked at him seriously. “No, no, it’s not that sort of bark, old man. Julie explained it to me. In this case, ‘bark’ means ‘ship.’ As in ‘disembark,’ you know.”

“Ginger’s really been studying his Shakespeare,” Juliet chimed, glowing with pride and temporarily forgetting that she was very cross with her brother.

“Self-defense,” the Duke explained. “She’s forever quoting him at me.”

“And now you’re graduating to private theatricals,” Cary remarked.

“All the world’s a stage,” the Duke replied.

“Wrong play, Ginger. Guess who’s going to be Malvolio,” said Juliet, turning to her brother, her gray eyes gleaming. “When you find out who I’ve got for Malvolio, you will
want
to come home for Christmas.”

Cary stared at her in absolute horror. “You haven’t dragged our brother into this crackbrained scheme of yours, have you?”

“No,” she admitted. “Benedict is too stuffy. He wouldn’t even let us use the library at Wayborn Hall for a theater. We’ve had to take Silvercombe. No, it’s not Benedict. You’ll never guess who it is, not in a hundred years.”

Cary smiled. “In that case, monkey, you had better tell me.”

“Mr. Rourke!” she said, unable to contain her triumph any longer. “Lord Ravenshaw wanted him for
his
private theatrical, but who wants to spend Christmas in Cornwall?”

Cary looked at her blankly.

“The actor! Mr. David Rourke, Cary. You remember him. He was Shylock last year.”